


Imbalance: Secrets

by Lady_R



Series: Imbalance [2]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Child Death, Corpses, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: Lorian, elder prince of Lothric, has died in his sleep. Nobody, not even his brother, can explain why.Oceiros, the prince's father, carries shame alongside grief. He has a secret he has never told anyone, that is slowly eating up at him and that keeps him from attending the child’s funeral. At least, now that his beloved son is dead, he makes for a fine confidant.





	Imbalance: Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> It's recommended to read "Uti Et Frui" to understand the events that are frequently mentioned in this shot.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502237#main

Even without Emma, the priests of Lothric have done a fine job. Prince Lorian’s hair are as soft as velvet, and they run like water through his gloved fingers. His closed eyelids are covered in bronze eyeshadow, the powder lights his pale cheeks of a rosy bloom. He had preferred arms to studies and faith; they have thus dressed him with his complete armor, as if the Demon Prince had come back from the kingdom of the dead and needed to be assassinated again. His fingers,covered by gauntlets, hold onto the hilt of his coiled sword. 

 _He came back from that battle, taking away my fears of losing him_. Oceiros fits his hair behind his ears and sighs at the faraway ceiling. _And yet, he's dead. The corpse of my son lays by me, and this will be the last time we ever see each other_.

In other kingdom, tradition requires for a noble’s funeral to be accompanied by a procession of small folks weeping and ripping off their hair. Lothric allows no such thing: yet, Lorian had a mourner of his own, physically distant, but way too close in heart. Oceiros strokes his own cheek with his palm. A stain of pink stands out on his black glove when he pulls it back. Under the blush covering them, his scabs feel thick and fresh. Gwynevere has washed his scratches deeply and kissed them one by one when they had closed, but they both know the scars will remain forever. 

Spots of pain pulsate on the back of the king’s cranium, covered by the hood lowered to his eyebrows. Not even the rarity of his blue hair was enough to spare them from his fury. It was Gwynevere again, eyes in his, hands still despite _it all,_ to remove the ripped strands of hair from his hands. 

She has taken care of everything. She has deployed Emma and Albert to better recover from their losses, faced the hammering questions from their servants, personally assisted to the preparation of Lorian's body. 

And she has come to the funeral – _not me, I could not, not if Lorian’s eyes are closed and Sulyvahn’s are open and he’s looking at me_ – taking Lothric with herself, all the time. Lothric, so tiny, so sweet, so quiet in his grief. 

In the meantime, he had been in his rooms clawing at his face, ripping his hair off, and kicking down all the furniture possible. -Shut the curtains!- he had screamed at the servant who had come to open them as every morning. -Shut those curtains right now! My child is dead!-. He had done what had been requested of him and he had run off, leaving him alone in the darkness, consuming himself in a pain of no outlet. 

 _Lorian would want no such father_. Surely, Gwynevere finds him pretty even with a disfigured face, and Sulyvahn… no, he mustn’t think of that horrendous man. _My son is dead, my son is dead, my son is dead_. 

He slowly paces around the altar, he takes a complete turn around the boy’s motionless body. Everybody is gone, now. Even Gwynevere needs time on her own. But Lothric, the poor boy… 

Losing a son burns like death itself, and if losing a brother is even a hundredth as terrible, Oceiros feels guilt just at being there, far away from him. But the idea of leaving his Lorian to rot there on his own burns even more. Such a young boy, on his own in a chapel. He needs his father – _and I need him, dear little Lorian_. 

-What are we doing here, my child? What am I to do, now that you’re no longer here?-

For a while, the king lays current up against the altar, face in his hands, tense skin and shaking limbs under his black tunic. Some steps sound outside the chapel, and a couple of servants open the door, brooms in their hands. 

-Begone!- Oceiros roars. -Leave me alone with him.- 

At least for a while, if one can. He was supposed to be there. He had thought of it, all morning,

But in that chapel, there was Sulyvahn. Sulyvahn doesn’t turn dead children. _And he craves me, he desires my body and he won't care whether my child is dead or alive_. 

That thought gives him more chills, and he kneels to remove his buttocks from the cold floor. 

 _He was supposed to die, not my boy_. No more Lorian climbing the church columns like mainmasts. No ore Lorian carrying his little brother on his shoulders despite the repetitive _no_ s by him and Gwynevere. No more Lorian waking them up early in the morning with the clamor of his sword. 

 _My little boy_. Oceiros wraps his arms around his chest and bends over himself like a flower knocked lover by a scythe, brushing the floor with his hair and the tip of his hood. 

 _Shame_ , is written on the names of the Royals of Lothric that are left without heirs. _Shame_ to those who lose what’s dearest to them. Lothric is up there, in his rooms, coughing and sobbing in the arms of a stranger in a tunic. 

 _He swore to never having touched him_ , Oceiros repeats to himself like a litany. He didn’t touch him. It’s himself, that the religious man’s filthy hands only want.

 _I hold you by a string, my king. Such is the power of faith_. 

Lorian has died without ever coming to know the true nature of his wise and gentle mentor. He sleeps the sleep of the just, his too-good child, and Oceiros already misses his beautiful heart-shaped face. He stands up and turns back to the altar where the youth awaits. He's still similar enough to his memories to simply look as if he’s sleeping. It won't last long, and the weight of time will take away his beauty and freshness, but Oceiros clings to it like a starving man to a lump of bread. He runs his stare on the length of the coiled sword, the gloved hands holding onto it, the full lips and the thin nose he got from him. 

 _I’m the king of the shamed, and my son is dead_. 

-Lorian.- he whispers into the boy’s ear. A tear falls into his auricle and vanishes in his acoustic meatus. -Did you, at least, feel love for me?-

Lothric has distant eyes, ever hidden under his eternal hood of swaddling clothes, and wasn’t weeping even at the news. _One day Lothric too... Lothric... no, damn it. I'm not ready. I've lost one already, let me have the other at least_. Lothric has lost a brother and it would be up to him and Gwynevere to console him. Instead, it's fingers of birch that wipe his tears, and thin milky lips tenderly whisper at him whispering prayers of bereavement for the dead.

-You’re the warrior among us, sweet son of mine. I,- the voice won’t come out, his throat scratches against his own skin, -studies aren’t a source of bravery. I can’t live like this. A prisoner in my own castle. And my jailer wears a cassock and preaches about kindness and fraternity. Wears me as a ring on his finger, twiddles me around as he pleases.- 

Secrets taste bitter in his still salty mouth. Lorian felt love for Sulyvahn, and came back from his lessons with a smile on his lips. _We're all but things, in his head: I'm but a prettier thing, that he wants to keep for himself and not let anyone else touch_. 

He shakes his head. _My son is dead and I'm worried about myself and my troubles_. Images run in front of his eyes, as clear as stained glass. Thousands of smiling Lorians tasting life like the sweetest nectar. The boy's corpse, instead, has a grumpy expression that doesn’t fit him.

-Judge me not, my child.- Oceiros runs Lorian's cheek with the tip of his index. -I prithee. You mustn’t suffer anymore. Sleep, Lorian. Sleep.- 

 _We had a cursed son and a knight son. They loved each other_. He has said “sleep” to him as if he could still wake up and look at him one last time with those beautiful dark eyes. How tight he’d hold him, then. And how sweet his salute would be, with his calm and gentle voice. 

-In any case, keep in mind that we love you. Me and your mother, and Lothric too. May Nito embrace you among a thousand honors.- 

He grabs the boy's conjoined hands and repeatedly kisses them, pouring warm and copious tears on the metallic knuckles. He reclines his cheek on Lorian’s stomach, savoring the remaining drops of salt, and wraps him in a crooked, cold embrace. 

 _Soon they’ll lay him down in the crypt, and I'll never see him again_. 

The chapel is cold, and for a moment Oceiros ponders about taking off his cape and covering his little boy with it. But even more, the king craves to be able to look at him again, carve his pretty face in the depth of his memories. _What if I forgot what he looks like?_ Oceiros pulls himself off the embrace and stares at the dead boy’s motionless face. He has straight blonde hair, his mother's soft face, and his eyes... no, no, his eyes are closed. Oceiros stretches his hands towards Lorian's face, stopping his fingers at a thumb of distance from his eyelids. One doesn't simply one a dead one's eyes, it's just not good. If only Lorian could look at him, smile at him, at least say his farewells. Not even fantasies are sweet anymore, not that day. 

 _I’m going mad. My world slips away from my fingers. Lorian is dead and soon they’ll lock him in the crypt forever_. Lorian buried in stone, locked in a chest like the Iron King of many centuries ago.

Idrissa of Alkenn had been a brave ruler, beloved by every subject, celebrated by the annals; and yet, he died without a heir. Amar of Eleum Loyce, Gryth of Shulva, even the Duke of Tseldora: all dead with no heirs. Vendrick of Drangleic had the Conqueror of Carthus as a son, but he died before witnessing his great and atrocious gestures. So it was supposed to be: fathers die before their children, and don’t end up hugging their cold corpses in a damned deserted chapel. 

 _I love you, Lorian_. He would have made the kingdom shine, even more than him and Gwynevere. He’d have supported scholars, warriors, some cleric even – _not even I’d keep him from that, faith can’t be ripped off like a rotted tooth_ – under the light of the Flame where Lothric… at that thought, Oceiros has to lean to the altar not to fall. 

 _I’ll never, ever, ever see him again_. 

He clenches his eyes shut, painfully digs in his memory. _What were we saying, the last time?_ Lorian lays motionless, his hair brushed by a whiff of wind. Oceiros turns the other way. _He's dead and he’ll never be back. Lothric lost a brother. I have no brothers. All I have is Gwynevere and Lothric and no more_. 

He rubs his eyes with his gloved fingers and stares again at the coiled sword. Lorian had fought a Demon Prince, and he's a bit more than a youth. And his father, instead, is silenced by any old religious man. Even dead, with his eyes shut, he can imagine the disappointment on his face. 

 _He's no average religious man_ , he tells himself. He's an Irithyllian, sneaky, as bitter as a dried tree. And he's Lothric's mentor. _Our only son_. He has to sit down, keep his thoughts in order, kicking Sulyvahn and his threats out of them for good. He needs Gwynevere, Lothric, a glimpse of normality. 

He strokes the dead boy's hands, again. So brave, so sweet, so deserving of better – and he loved Lothric so much. Oceiros rises his gaze to the stained glass and clenches his fists in his black leather gloves. 

His son is dead. He won't lose the other too.

_I will always love you, Lorian. I swear it. We'll never forget you._

Oceiros lowers his hood to his eyes and walks to the door. He wants to turn back, one last stare to his lifeless little boy. _Should I say something? That I love him, that I'm sorry, that I didn’t mean for it to end so?_  

But these are obvious things and Lorian isn’t stupid. Now he's resting. He mustn't disturb him, and he has to hurry. Sulyvahn is there, even if he can't see him, always staring at him from behind his back, eating him up with his eyes like an animal corpse, shifting him around in his hands even from his rooms. He rushes up the stairs, runs towards the corridor to their bedroom. 

 _It’d be a revolting stain on your name._ Oceiros shakes his head. _But my son is dead, and among all shames, I couldn’t suffer a worse one_.

He opens the door, rubbing his feet on the floor. Sulyvahn feels lust for a shamed one: a shamed one that’s _king_ , and whose back carries enough straws already. 

-Gwynevere.- he murmurs. -My beloved, I have to talk to you.-

Gwynevere lifts her face from the ground, brown hair dancing on her face, as light as silk. But her face is icy pale, and her cheekbones seem to be protruding like blades under the skin.

 _She needed me_. Oceiros tenses, but doesn’t stop looking at her. The queen rises from the sofa and walks to the door, slowly, as if her mourning gowns were as heavy as lead. 

-Osi.-

She stretches a hand towards him, but pulls it back before Oceiros can hold it. She averts her eyes. 

-Shut the door. Now.- 

Oceiros closes it, without a sound. Gwynevere grits her forehead, tosses a strand of her gown behind her back. -Where have you been?- she roars. -Our son’s funeral, and you’re not there!-

Oceiros steps backwards, leaning against the wall. Gwynevere unfolds her teeth, she stops at a palm from him, grabs his shoulders with her hands. -For the First Flame, where were you?- she yells. 

It hurts her too: the pain of eternity doesn't prepare for the loss of a child. The Gwynevere he knows wouldn’t let him get away scot-free from such a thing. Oceiros wants to throw himself into her arms and weep in her shoulder until draining, but he can't. The time of secrets has ended alongside their child.  

-I must confess a thing to you.- Oceiros murmurs. The spark of rage in Gwynevere's eyes fades for a moment. Her eyes are red, her cheeks glisten. _Her pain is mine, and I'm making it greater_. But he swore he’d not be silent anymore, and so it will be. 

-It’s about Sulyvahn.- 

Gwynevere raises her head and widens her eyes. -What else is that accursed one doing?.

-It’s not something he’s doing. It's something he did. To me.-

Gwynevere takes a deep breath, fists clenched to her thighs. It looks as if tears had dug crevices in her face, cracking her skin and deflating the muscles on her cheeks. _She probably lost sleep like I lost my appetite_.  

-Come with me, please. I need air.-

Oceiros walks silently towards the door to the balcony, he opens it, walks to the railing and leans upon it like a walking stick. Oceiros’ Garden is a green carpet, glistening in dew, barely scraped in silver by the stone walls. _And it had been there, behind the biggest of them all, that the bastard put his putrid hands on me_. 

He tightens his hold on the iron railing and breathes deeply the cold air of twilight. Gwynevere stops by his side, holds his wrist with her fingers. 

Lorian is dead, and nothing looks like they remember it. Lothric needs them. A child in loss deserves a strong father.

-Some months ago, me and His Eminence went for a walk in the garden. I didn’t come back until dining time. The servants had to come fetch me, and lead me by hand to you. The time has come for you to know why.- 


End file.
